The Puzzle Box
by charleygirl
Summary: A strange bequest from a relative gives Holmes just what he wants for Christmas - a puzzle to solve...
1. Chapter 1

**Usual Disclaimer: **None of these characters belong to me, sadly.

**Author's Note:** I'm not entirely sure where the idea for this came from, but once I had it it wouldn't leave me alone. The depiction of the extended Holmes clan makes me think I may have been watching too much _Jeeves and Wooster_ recently... :)

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**THE PUZZLE BOX**

**PART ONE**

"It certainly is a beautiful specimen, Mrs Hudson," I said sincerely as we stood regarding our landlady's latest addition to the sitting room I shared with Sherlock Holmes.

Mrs Hudson's homely face wore a delighted smile. "It is indeed, Doctor. And the man told me that if we keep the soil moist it should last until twelfth night. Once it's decorated it will look a treat in here, I'm sure."

I agreed. The festive season was and is one of my favourite times of the year, and I felt that it had not really started until our home was dressed appropriately. In this I met with annual opposition from my fellow tenant, to whom Christmas was more of an irritant than a celebration, a yearly aberration which got in the way of his work and launched an onslaught of sentimentalism. Without my determination to observe the season, ably assisted by Mrs Hudson, the house would have remained drab and cheerless from the beginning of Advent to the end of New Year, and Holmes would not take the least notice. Over the years I had gradually managed to persuade him to exchange small gifts on Christmas morning, but it had been an uphill struggle and a somewhat hollow victory.

My heart sank now as I heard his familiar step upon the stair. I knew already just what his reaction would be – Mrs Hudson and I had been hoping to install our new acquisition in the corner before he got home, thus presenting it as a fait accompli, but he had anticipated our intentions and returned while the offending article still stood in its cheerful red-glazed pot upon the table.

"The streets are utter chaos!" Holmes declared as he reached the landing and threw his hat and coat in the general direction of the hall-stand. The hat sailed straight past and on into the sitting room, landing neatly on the sofa, while the coat fell in an untidy heap on the floor. "A group of drunks overturned a chestnut seller's barrow in Oxford Street, which caused a cabbie's horse to shy and throw his unfortunate fare into the road. The police were called, three people arrested…it took half an hour to – what is _that_?"

Holmes's narrative had taken him into the sitting room itself and round the sofa to warm his hands in front of the fire before he was brought verbally up short by the sight of the alien in our home.

I cleared my throat. "It is a Christmas tree, Holmes. A spruce, to be exact."

"I am aware of the species, thank you, Watson," he snapped. "What in heaven's name is it doing in here?"

"Oh, come now, Mr Holmes, this must be the last house in London not to have a Christmas tree," said Mrs Hudson before I could respond. "It would look lovely over there by the window. Once we get the lights and decorate the branches - "

"We will surely set fire to the curtains," finished Holmes, eyeing the baubles and candles which lay in a gleaming new wooden box on the sideboard.

"Mr Holmes - "

He held up a hand, his usual sign that he wished to put an end to the discussion. "Mrs Hudson, we had this conversation last year, did we not? If I must bear the trial of having the house turned into the Botanical Gardens then I will do so, under protest, but I do draw the line at a tree. There are quite enough of them outside in the park – we do not need another in here. Kindly remove it to a more appropriate location."

Our landlady sighed, and glanced at me. I shrugged, knowing that Holmes would be implacable upon the subject. We had done our best, but the master had spoken – perhaps if we tried every year he would eventually capitulate from sheer exasperation. "Very well, sir," Mrs Hudson said, and hefted the little tree into her arms. I offered to help, but she would not hear of it, carrying the tree off with her and shutting the door with more force than was strictly necessary.

"You are a veritable Scrooge," I told Holmes when she had gone.

He finished packing his pipe with tobacco from the Persian slipper and reached for the matches. "Nonsense. I merely like to have my home free from hazards. This fad for decorating the inside of buildings with dangerous winter foliage has reached epidemic proportions."

"People have been doing it for centuries!" I pointed out, but as usual he would have none of it.

"Only yesterday I received personal injury when that sprig of holly over the mantelpiece fell unnoticed onto my chair. And then I suffered a most mortifying incident at the post office this morning, when Miss Rainsby took liberties with my person without so much as a by-your-leave."

I tried to keep my lips from twitching into a smile and failed miserably. "The lady with the fair curls and the spectacles? Whatever did she do to you?"

"She kissed me, Watson! Before all the other customers and much to the amusement of her colleagues. I had no inkling the abominable woman had hung mistletoe over the counter until she launched her attack." Holmes looked both scandalised and embarrassed, and I could not help it: I laughed. Hilarity bubbled up within me until I could contain it no more, and Holmes's outrage only increased to see me doubled over and clinging to a chair for support. "This is no laughing matter, Watson!" he cried, turning pink to the tips of his ears.

"Did you…did you report this assault upon your person?" I asked unsteadily, wiping at my streaming eyes.

He pouted. "I tried, but the constable had much the same reaction to my story as that which you are displaying now. What is it about Christmas which turns respectable ladies into…into _harpies_?"

"Oh, Holmes, I hardly think she was after your virtue. No doubt it was just a joke."

"Whatever it was, I shall be using the Oxford Street post office to send my telegrams in future," he said with a sniff. He really could be completely clueless as to the behaviour of women sometimes. I wondered which had affronted him more – the kiss or the damage it had done to his dignity. "At least until this festive madness is over."

"Speaking of telegrams," I interjected, scooping up a yellow envelope from his desk and handing it to him, "This came for you after lunch."

He tore it open and read the contents before throwing the whole into the fire. "A summons from Olympus," he replied when I shot him a questioning look, and dropped his still-smouldering pipe onto the table, crossing the room to retrieve his discarded overcoat from the floor.

"Your brother? What does he want?"

"Well, I very much doubt he intends to wish me a Merry Christmas, as he has not moved himself to do so since 1886. You had better come too, Watson – a visit to brother Mycroft is always educational if nothing else."

"A very good idea," I agreed. "You will need someone to protect you from any marauding females we may meet on the way."

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Half an hour later we were waiting in the Strangers' Room of the Diogenes Club, the only chamber of that peculiar establishment within which conversation was permitted. The complete lack of festive cheer did not surprise me, knowing the hermit-like tendencies of the men who made up its members - there was no sign of any observation of the season, not even a solitary sprig of holly. The room was chilly, the fire having been lit for us just a few moments before, which circumstance spoke of a lack of recent communication with the outside world.

At length the door opened and the massive frame of Mycroft Holmes ambled into the room. As corpulent as his brother was thin, Mycroft gave the impression of lethargy and indolence, but I knew that behind the façade lurked a mind like a razor, and that despite appearances he was not averse to a little action should the situation demand it. His watery grey eyes surveyed us both for a few moments before he said,

"You are not eating again, Sherlock. It is a mistake to deny oneself food, especially at this time of year when there are so many culinary delights on offer. Abstinence is an affectation for the idle and the fanatical, of which you are neither."

Holmes raised an eyebrow. "I observe that you are not practising it at any rate, brother mine. A good dinner, was it?"

"First class. The wines were superb," Mycroft replied, unruffled by his sibling's waspish tone. "Well, sit down, both of you. I am glad to see you, Doctor Watson – I can see that you quite clearly have the patience of a saint, since you have not left my brother to his own devices over the festive period. He always was an absolute horror at Christmas, from the moment he learned to talk."

"I am sure you did not summon me to discuss my shortcomings, Mycroft," Holmes said pointedly before I could even open my mouth. "What do you want?"

The elder Holmes blinked. "Eh? Oh, of course. I had a letter yesterday from Cressida – Great Aunt Sophronia has passed on." He rummaged in the pocket of his jacket and withdrew an envelope which he handed to his brother.

Holmes took it and quickly scanned the letter within. "When?"

"A week last Sunday, I believe."

"It cannot have been unexpected. She must have been at least a hundred and ten – I remember her as a wizened old crone, and I last saw her when I was twenty-one."

"She was in fact two months, twenty-seven days and six and a half hours past her ninety-eighth birthday," Mycroft replied without hesitation.

"I had entirely forgotten that she was still alive," said Holmes, with a detachment which gave the impression of one discussing the demise of a pet or a houseplant rather than that of a family member. I personally found this first mention of the wider Holmes clan fascinating, as I had shared rooms with Sherlock for nearly ten years before he even mentioned that he had a brother. Even after another six, I still knew next to nothing about the rest of his family.

"We all did our best to. She buried herself down in Sussex for the last couple of decades – I doubt if even Cressida had seen her in that long, and she was always the old lady's favourite. If you have read that letter in its entirety you will be aware that the first she knew of Aunt Sophronia's end was the appearance of a solicitor on her doorstep. She had been made an executor without the matter having even been discussed with her."

"That does not surprise me in the least." Holmes folded the sheet of notepaper and handed it back to his brother. "Thank you for informing me, Mycroft, but surely it could have been done via a telegram rather than dragging me across town?"

"Impatient as always," Mycroft muttered, casting me a despairing glance. "However do you put up with him, Doctor?"

"Mycroft, if there is something else pray get to the point," Holmes snapped. "You may have all day, but some of us have business to attend to."

"On Christmas Eve? Surely, Sherlock, even the criminals must take some holiday at this time of year."

"It may surprise you to learn, dear brother, that crime does not take the festive season into account. Now, is there something else you wish to impart?"

Mycroft dug his pudgy hand into his pocket once more and this time removed a small parcel wrapped in brown paper and tied neatly with string. This he passed to me to hand to his brother, much to Holmes's surprise.

"Surely not a Christmas gift, Mycroft? You must be getting sentimental in your declining years," he said receiving a roll of the eyes in response.

"Cressida sent it," Mycroft replied, sitting back in his chair. It was a huge wing-backed creation, whose matching pair across the hearth almost swallowed his younger and leaner sibling. "Aunt Sophronia apparently bequeathed it to you, goodness knows why. I never thought she had any more affection for you than for the rest of us. The only warm feelings I ever recall her displaying were for those wretched pugs of hers."

"What is it?" I asked, as Holmes unwrapped the parcel, a confused frown creasing his brow. Within the paper nestled a little wooden box, no more than two inches square, its shiny surface lacquered black and red in a chequered pattern. Curiously, there appeared to be no lid, or means of opening it.

"A Chinese puzzle box," Holmes replied. "Aunt Sophronia collected them. At one point I believe she had in excess of six hundred. I often played with them as a child, before she turned into a recluse on the death of Uncle Hethersett."

"You opened them all, too, if I recall correctly," said Mycroft.

"All but this one. It bested me every time." There was a slip of paper within the parcel – Holmes quickly read it and handed it to me. In a spidery scrawl were written these words:

_Sherlock,_

_If age has brought wisdom through experience, may the box at last give up its secrets to you._

_Aunt S._

I frowned now myself. "Whatever does she mean?"

Mycroft heaved himself to his feet. "Our aunt was an exceptionally intelligent – if somewhat peculiar – woman, and she delighted in riddles. No doubt this is her idea of a joke."

Holmes glanced sharply at his brother. "You have already deduced the answer?"

"She sent it to you, dear boy. I know how much you enjoy mysteries – I would not dream of spoiling it for you. Now, I have to see the Home Secretary before six, so I am afraid I have to leave you. Do let me know how long it takes you to solve the puzzle, Sherlock."

"Of course." Holmes leapt up from his chair. "I think I can promise to send you a telegram with news of my success by the time you rise tomorrow morning."

"By eight o'clock?" Mycroft laughed; a great rumbling chuckle which echoed in his barrel of a chest. "That is no small undertaking – I have heard of some of the cleverest men in the land being stumped by those little conundrums."

"Nevertheless, I shall do it. Would you care to make things a little more…official?"

"I am not a gambling man, Sherlock, you know that."

"Nor am I. However, this wager may tempt you: if I lose, I will send round Mrs Hudson's justly-famous plum pudding for you to enjoy alone…" Holmes said, leaving the offer hanging temptingly in the air.

Mycroft's pale eyes lit up. "Plum pudding?"

"Holmes!" I objected, having been looking forward to that annual treat. Mrs Hudson's cooking had been filling the house with delicious smells for the past few days, and plum pudding was the most tantalising of them all.

Holmes ignored me. "Well, Mycroft? Do we have a deal?"

"What happens if you win?" Mycroft asked suspiciously.

"Then I shall expect to see you in time for dinner at Baker Street tomorrow, in the company of that twenty-year-old Scotch you have been hiding since Great-Uncle Harrington's funeral."

The elder Holmes wavered for a moment, before his stomach evidently made the decision for him. "Oh, very well – done!"

"Ha! Excellent!" Holmes exclaimed, energised. He clapped me on the shoulder, the puzzle box disappearing into the pocket of his coat. "Come, Watson, we have no time for chatting – the game is afoot!"

**TBC**


	2. Chapter 2

**THE PUZZLE BOX**

**PART TWO**

And so it was.

Holmes devoted the rest of the afternoon to the puzzle, poring over the box with the aid of his magnifying glass and microscope until the light faded, barely noticing when I pulled the curtains and turned on the gas, so engrossed was he. I could imagine him as a child, consumed with determination to force the box to give up its secrets to him, and could equally see his chagrin as he failed, time after time. Failure did not sit well with my friend, and his frustration with the toy was just as palpable now as it must have been all those years ago.

The hours ticked by in our cosy, holly-decked rooms, the crackling of the fire and the distant sound of _O, Little Town of Bethlehem_ being played on a barrel organ the only accompaniment to Holmes's grunts and mutters of annoyance as he subjected the little box to every scrutiny. Mrs Hudson came and went with supper. Carol singers arrived at the door and delighted us with their harmonies. The clock struck midnight. Nothing roused him from his concentration.

Eventually, when I attempted to wish him a Merry Christmas before I took myself off to bed and he did not respond, I decided to put my foot down. I strode over to his desk and plucked the box from his hands. He whirled upon me with a glare which would have struck another man dead and tried to snatch it back but I held it out of his reach.

"For pity's sake, Holmes, it is twenty past two on Christmas morning!" I cried. "To work yourself through what remains of the night – especially _this_ night – is madness!"

"I cannot lose to Mycroft!" he snarled, making another grab for the box. Tiredness and lack of food was catching up with him, however, and he all but tumbled from his chair. I caught him before he could hit the floor, placing the box well away on the table.

"This is ludicrous," I said.

"I have to open it, Watson," he insisted, shaking his head to try and clear the sleep that was evidently encroaching and fogging his brain. For the past week he had been intent upon a case – I doubted if he had even looked upon his bed for more than an hour or two in that time. "I would rather be proved wrong before the entire Metropolitan Police force than lose a bet to Mycroft. He will never allow me to forget it."

"That is no reason to work yourself into the ground, old man. After all, it's only a box."

Holmes sat back in his chair, massaging his forehead with his long white fingers. "Then tell me how to open it. The damnable thing refuses to reveal its secrets to me – evidently the passing of the years has not brought the required wisdom after all. You may as well take a look."

This I did, settling the little box in my hand, where it fitted neatly into the palm. Now that I looked at it more closely, I could see that there was a groove running round the middle, indicating the presence of a lid, even if there were no obvious latches or hinges. There was not even a catch, and my nails could gain no purchase upon the shiny surface as I attempted to lever it open. I had never seen anything like it, and my frustration mounted as I, like Holmes, failed to find the 'key' that would unlock it.

"It is absurd!" I exclaimed as the clock chimed four and still I worked at it, all thought of sleep banished. "I do not believe that the person who made this ever intended it to be opened. It is a trick!"

"It is a trick indeed, but not one without resolution," Holmes said, smothering a yawn. "My aunt was a most devious woman. Where other females merely practise the arts of guile and deception, she was the extreme mistress of both. She once hatched a plot to marry me to my cousin Cressida, but fortunately my father got wind of it and packed me off to university just in time."

This revelation came as no little surprise to me, having never, in all the years I had known him, heard Holmes mention a connection with a woman in such a way before. I could only account for this highly unusual dropping of his reserve by putting it down to a combination of his exhaustion and the liberal quantities of port we had both consumed since I opened a bottle in desperation nearly two hours before. "I take it that came as something of a shock."

He chuckled a little drunkenly. "Not half as much of a shock as it was to Cressida. Despite the fact that we never could stand the sight of one another, she was also engaged to a captain of dragoons at the time."

"Would I be right in thinking that your distrust of women springs from your encounters with the female members of your family?" I enquired, turning the box upside down and squinting at it. "Particularly your aunt?"

Holmes grunted. "Would such a relative not have had a similar effect upon you? As the family matriarch, she attempted to rule us all with a rod of iron. Having imposed such conditions upon her own offspring, she insisted upon my parents endowing Mycroft and myself with these encumbrances we bear as Christian names."

"Well," I said, "at least she provided you with a name which will be remembered. _The Adventures of William Henry Holmes_ does not have quite the same ring to it."

His head was now resting upon the blotter, the rest of his body curled up in the chair like a bundle of black pipe cleaners, but he somehow still managed to look thoughtful. "You could be right."

"Of course I'm right," I told him, and he snickered into the blotting paper. "However, I hate your aunt."

"The sentiment is entirely mutual, I assure you."

I turned my attention back to the box. Though not as logical and analytical a man as my friend, I cannot stand to leave a problem unsolved. I may have thought the puzzle a trivial one to begin with, but now that I had set my mind to it I was unable to let it go, however much the port in my stomach and the sleep tugging at my eyelids tried to tell me otherwise.

While Holmes was snoring quietly, slumped over his desk, I was still doggedly working away at the Chinese box when the clock in the hall struck six o'clock, and had not relinquished it over an hour later when I heard Mrs Hudson moving about below.

The good lady herself knocked on the door at half-past seven, a carol on her lips and her face wreathed in smiles, no doubt having in turn heard my own movements. "Merry Christmas, gentlemen," she said cheerily, "It's a fine morning out there, and I'm sure that - " She stopped, eyes wide, upon regarding the two of us, Holmes still sleeping soundly and myself dishevelled and somewhat desperate. "Good Lord, Doctor, have you been up all night? Whatever have you been doing?"

The puzzle box sat in the middle of the table, still sealed and mocking me with its red and black brightness. I glared at it. "Mr Holmes was left that by a relative," I explained. "It has defied every attempt to open it."

Mrs Hudson clucked her tongue in disapproval. "And you've spent all this time trying?"

I yawned and rubbed a hand over my unshaven chin. "Yes. Silly, I know."

"Well, I know Mr Holmes when he gets a mystery to solve. It is a pretty little thing, though…may I take a look?"

"By all means." Privately I wanted to throw the blasted thing out of the window and never set eyes on it again. I did not think I had ever felt so frustrated in my life as I did at that moment. "I do not think it can be opened – there must be some fault with the design."

"No, I don't think so," said our landlady, picking up the box and regarding it for a moment. As I watched, she carefully exerted a little pressure first on the side of the thing, and then on the top, before sliding her nails into the very groove which had earlier repelled me and smiling in satisfaction as the lid sprang upwards. "There, you see? I had one just like it as a girl – an uncle in the merchant navy brought it back from China for me as a Christmas present."

I stared at her in amazement. "Mrs Hudson, you are a marvel," I told her when I had regained my voice, and turned to shake Holmes by the shoulder. "Holmes! Holmes, wake up! Mrs Hudson has solved the puzzle!"

Holmes was awake in an instant, gazing in disbelief at the open box as I held it before his eyes. "How in the world..?"

"Deduction and analysis are all very well," said Mrs Hudson loftily, "but sometimes they can make you miss what's right under your nose!"

"Of course…" Holmes snatched the box and peered at it through his most powerful lens. "Hidden catches…I should have seen it!"

"There is a paper inside," I said, spotting the twisted scrap and plucking it out. In strong, bold handwriting was printed the following:

_Never underestimate a woman._

When I showed this to Holmes he threw back his head and laughed.

"What does it mean?" I asked, confused.

"That note is from Cressida, no doubt left many years ago after an argument. She could open the box, much to my annoyance, but would never tell me how it was done. Her claim was that if I could not work out something so simple I would never succeed in my chosen profession. Naturally, I have proved her wrong, but the defeat still rankled. No doubt Aunt Sophronia believed that if I persisted in mistrusting women I would get nowhere in life, and this was her way of proving it to me."

"Well, she was right in this case," I pointed out, earning myself another glare. However, before he could say anything a thought seemed to strike him and he scrabbled for his watch.

"Quick, Watson, what is the time?"

"Nearly a quarter to eight, I believe. Why?"

"Brother Mycroft! We must telegraph him immediately!"

"But, Holmes – you did not solve the puzzle! The bet is off," I said.

"He is not to know that. If I could prevail upon Mrs Hudson to say nothing, I would greatly enjoy getting the better of my brother, and I am sure that you, Watson, would appreciate not losing a portion of your Christmas dinner…" Holmes said, directing his most charming smile towards Mrs Hudson and proving once again that, though he may not have trusted women, he knew exactly how to deal with them.

Our landlady tilted her chin. "Well, now, Mr Holmes, that very much depends."

"Depends?" He blinked in surprise. "Upon what?"

There was a definite steely glint in Mrs Hudson's eye. "On whether, when I return from the telegraph office, there is a prettily-decorated Christmas tree standing in that corner, that's what."

Holmes looked towards the window and his face fell. "I really don't think - "

"That is the condition, Mr Holmes. You may take it or leave it."

"The clock is ticking, Holmes," I said, trying to keep my face neutral. "Of course, you could send the wire yourself – I am sure that Miss Rainsby would be glad to see you…"

He gave a visible shudder. "God forbid."

"I will have to hurry, Mr Holmes," said Mrs Hudson, exchanging a wink with me.

Holmes looked torn, but as the clock struck the quarter hour he had to admit defeat. His shoulders slumped, and he reached for a telegraph pad, scribbling on it for a moment before tearing off the topmost sheet and handing it to her. "Very well, Mrs Hudson. Please send this wire to my brother – he will be joining us for Christmas dinner, if that will not trouble you."

The good woman turned towards the door with a triumphant smile. "Very good, sir."

"I have no idea what is amusing you, Watson," Holmes said as the door shut behind her and I gave way to the grin that was trying to make its way onto my face . "We have barely ten minutes, and you are the one who know how to decorate a Christmas tree. Where the devil does one start?"

I picked up the box of baubles from the sideboard and dumped it on his desk, much to his horror. "Oh, it's quite simple, Holmes. Any idiot can do it. And you have picked the ideal time to learn…"

**FIN**

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_And there you have it! A little seasonal fluff. :)_

_Thank you to everyone who has taken the time to read my stories this year and to leave such lovely comments and reviews._

_A very Merry Christmas to you all!_


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